by Ed James
‘Well, hopefully nobody’ll abuse her again, but she’s got a long process to go through before she clears her name.’
‘How did that interview go?’
What interview?
Oh, that one…
Hunter slouched back in the chair and sighed. ‘Never mind, mate.’
‘Sure you’ll get away from punks like me. Back to being a proper cop, eh, jabroni?’ Finlay hit the button again. Then again. And again. ‘Ah, knickers.’
Hunter took a sip of beer. Could barely taste it. The Elm was quiet, just the four of them taking advantage of the lunchtime lull.
Cullen and McNeill were sitting close together, almost touching.
Hunter leaned over to Jain. ‘Are they a couple?’
She smirked at him. ‘You didn’t know? Jesus, Craig.’
‘That’s his other half?’
‘Why? Don’t think she’s good enough for him?’
‘No, it just… explains a lot, that’s all.’
Lauren stomped in, face like she’d just gone twelve rounds with Thor. ‘Elvis said you’d be here.’
‘Methven approved time off.’ Cullen lifted his bottle of Brewdog Nanny State. ‘His card’s behind the bar.’
‘I’d kill for a G&T.’ Lauren collapsed into the bench between Cullen and Hunter, the leather squeaking. ‘You saw Finlay, didn’t you?’
Hunter took a sip of beer and barely tasted it. ‘Not sure he sees it that way, though.’
Lauren nodded. ‘Kept asking me how much the compensation was.’
‘To good old Compo.’ Jain raised her wine glass. ‘Jesus wept.’
Lauren scowled at her. ‘That’s not in very good taste.’
‘And since when was anything Finlay Sinclair said in good taste?’ She got up, shaking her head at her. ‘I’m getting another, anyone want anything?’
‘That G&T would be super.’ Lauren shrugged off her fleece. The hairs on her arms stood on end.
Hunter raised his almost-empty pint glass and watched Jain wiggle her way over to the irritated hipster behind the bar. He nodded at Lauren. ‘She doesn’t mean it.’
‘I know. It’s just … hard. I can’t believe what’s happened to him on my watch.’
‘I was there, Lauren.’ Hunter finished the pint. ‘Should’ve stopped it.’
‘I don’t disagree.’ Lauren rubbed her hands together. ‘What that girl’s been through…’
Hunter stared at Jain, her secret rattling in his skull. Problem halved or doubled?
‘She did what she felt she had to do.’ He spun his pint glass around the table. Gas was already building up in his gut. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Join the club, Craig. Join the club.’
Hunter got up and collected his empty. ‘I’m going to help Chantal.’ He wandered over to the bar and stood a decent distance away from her. ‘Hey.’
‘All right?’ She handed him his pint. Far too much foam, but he wasn’t in a complaining mood.
He sipped it, trying to lubricate his mouth. ‘What you said in the rain earlier…’
‘Every one of these bastards I put away helps.’ Jain took a sip of her red wine and stared into the middle distance. She swallowed and looked back at him, exhaling through her nostrils. ‘It helps…’
‘I want to help.’
‘Listen, I don’t know why I told you.’ Jain glanced over at McNeill. ‘Sharon doesn’t even know about it.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Aye. And I don’t want you to treat me like some sort of charity case, okay?’
‘I’ll treat you however you’d like to be treated.’
‘You silver-tongued twat.’ She sighed. ‘Look, Craig, I’m shite at this relationship stuff, okay?’
‘I’m not much better. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to try. With you.’
‘What a pair we’d make.’ She winked at him. ‘Fuckbuddy cops.’
‘I like the sound of that.’ Hunter looked back at their table, all three of them staring into space. ‘So, how about we get out of here?’
Jain nibbled at her lip. ‘You need to be discreet, okay?’
‘You really don’t want to be seen with me, do you?’
‘It’s not that… Look, discretion or it’s off, okay?’
‘That’s my middle name.’ Hunter zipped up his lips. ‘Mum’s the word.’
‘I’ll finish my wine, leave and go around the block. Then you meet me by the chip shop on Montgomery Street. My flat’s just up the road.’
‘Deal.’ Hunter clinked glasses with her and led back to their table, sitting next to Lauren and handing her a glass of white wine.
‘Psst.’ Lauren leaned over. ‘We’re all impressed with your work on this case.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter shrugged, fire burning its way up his neck. ‘Is it too late to withdraw the application for that ADC job?’
‘Don’t you want it?’
‘I don’t want to work with Davenport again.’
Lauren sat back on the bench. ‘You need to get over your past, Craig.’
Hunter looked at Jain, already halfway through her wine. ‘I’m trying.’
‘You know, there’s an opportunity just appeared somewhere else. And given you’ve passed a DC interview today…’
‘What, I passed?’
‘I got an email from Donna Nichols this evening.’ Lauren gave him the thumbs up. ‘Flying colours.’
‘Cheers, Sarge.’ Hunter clinked glasses with her. ‘Well, that is good news.’
‘What is?’ Jain finished her drink and got up. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow.’
‘Aye, cheers, Chantal.’ Hunter checked his watch.
Time to tan a pint in five minutes.
Four weeks later
Monday
14th September
45
Hunter pulled up the pool car alongside a pair of high-end Audis, gleaming in the September sunshine. ‘This it?’
Jain nodded. ‘That’s right.’
He executed a swift reverse park and killed the engine. ‘You okay, Sarge?’
‘I’m fine, Constable.’ Jain reached over and picked at his jacket. ‘That’s a lovely suit, by the way.’
‘Well, you chose it.’
‘It’ll be a shame to ruin it.’
‘Not on my first day, surely?’
‘Relax.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘Come on, let’s do this. Three days of statements from this punk and we’re done. He’ll be off to the nick and we can move on.’
Hunter got out his briefing notes and started flicking through. ‘He’s done a lot of horrible shit. Sure he’s going to comply with us just turning up?’
‘He is.’ Jain got out of the car and marched up the stairs to the Georgian townhouse, three storeys of red stone. She knocked on the door and waited for Hunter to join her on the top step.
The door slid open and a wall of muscle and gristle towered over them, face like a wrecking ball waiting to be launched. ‘Aye?’
Jain smiled at him as she unfolded her warrant card. ‘Police.’
He kicked at the door, pushing it in Jain’s face and shutting it with a loud slam.
Hunter reached down to pick her up. ‘You okay?’
‘God by dose.’ Blood trickled down from both of her nostrils. ‘Ged him!’
‘Right.’ Hunter used his shoulder to barge through the door, then followed the clumping footsteps up the staircase, Jain’s behind him like a shadow. The sound led into a back room overlooking Dunfermline.
He was on the windowsill, just getting ready to jump out of the window. A thick tree loomed in the lawn behind.
Hunter stopped dead and groaned. ‘Terrific. This again.’
Hunted
Day 1
Thursday
12th May
1
HUNTER
* * *
DC Craig Hunter slowed the pool car as he approached the roundabout. The wipers cleared a hole in the rain-splatter pattern on the windscreen, al
most immediately refilled.
Who’d believe it was May?
Galashiels emerged through the hazy deluge. Typical Scottish town. Could be anywhere — Elgin, Dalkeith, Forfar, Stranraer — but it was in the Borders. Stuck at the top edge of the square of small rugby towns that anyone with half a mind would escape at eighteen and never look back. The weather made it look even worse, sucking the life and colour out of the sky.
One of the new trains was grinding its way back towards Edinburgh, water sluicing down the side windows as it gathered speed. The tracks hid behind a low brick wall, an older one set into steep steps higher up the cliff face, the beige blocks darkened by the rain.
He switched into the right-hand lane and took the old bridge across the Tweed — at least, he thought it was the Tweed — and waited by a grand hotel opposite Farmfoods, the indicator clicking.
DS Chantal Jain sat next to him. Skin tone a barista could spend hours getting coffee to match. Cheekbones that could cut diamond or blunt the sharpest drill. Hunter’s boss and didn’t she know it.
She rattled the cable hanging out of her phone. ‘Bloody thing still isn’t charging.’ She waved a hand over the road, obscured by the wipers squeaking across the windscreen. ‘It’s that way.’
‘Shite, aye.’ Hunter flicked the indicator to the left and set off down a long street. ‘Not paying attention.’ Old buildings faced off against the sixties police station, three grim storeys of white harling. He turned into the busy car park and settled for the furthest space.
Chantal was already out, snapping her brolly open like it was a police baton. She jogged across the tarmac towards the cop shop.
Hunter turned off the engine and got out into the rain. Even heavier than it looked. He darted through the stair rods and burst in through the front door. His jacket looked like he’d dived into the deep end of a swimming pool.
Chantal shook out her umbrella by the public desk, water spraying in the empty room. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Wish I was, doll.’ The sergeant perched on a stool, sneering at his computer like it was beneath him. ‘All that way and she can’t be arsed to turn up. Nightmare, eh?’
Hunter joined Chantal and rested his soaking hands on the desk. ‘What’s going on?’
‘She’s not showed up.’ Chantal glowered at the desk sergeant, like that’d do any good. ‘Have you misplaced her on the system?’
The sergeant swivelled the monitors around to show four empty rooms. ‘Just the two here, hen. She’s not in either of them.’ He chinked the screen. ‘And these others are the only places she’s allowed. She’s not here.’
Hunter clamped his eyes shut. ‘Think she’s bumped us again?’
‘Three times in a week.’ Chantal snapped out her umbrella, a fresh mist of water spraying off. ‘You’d think she didn’t want that dirty raping bastard to go to prison or something.’
What if she’s not bumped us, but…
Hunter swallowed hard. ‘Tulloch can’t have got to her, can he?’ He checked his watch, sweat trickling down his back. ‘Supposed to still be at Fort George until about now.’
What if we’re wrong?
What if he left the barracks early and headed down here to…
Hunter dug out his phone. ‘Aw, shite.’
Five missed calls from Paisley Sanderson.
Hunter took his chance and joined the snake of cars and vans winding down the High Street. Curry house, hairdressers, charity shop. Wetherspoons, pool hall, kiltmaker. He slowed the wipers a notch. ‘Is she answering?’
Chantal stared out of the window, a slight shake of her head. ‘Still nothing.’ She put the phone to her ear. ‘Tell me this isn’t another one.’
‘I’d love to.’ Hunter drove on, twisting his fingers against the rubbery steering wheel. Polish shop, taxi firm, corner pub in an old bank building. ‘Four victims pulled out, now it looks like another. How’s this happening?’
The hills climbed up to surround the town’s valley.
‘I don’t know, Craig.’ Chantal looked back at him, eyebrows raised, her lips an O. ‘Voicemail.’
‘Eight months.’ Hunter grunted as he twisted around another bend. ‘Twenty cops across half the bloody country, trying to get enough evidence to put one shitebag away.’ A financial advisor’s office hid amongst the old shopfronts, long since converted into houses. ‘He’s not getting away with it.’
The McDonald’s arches loomed in the distance, the Californian yellow glowing in the grey Scottish sky.
‘Ah, shite.’ Hunter braked hard, the car skidded. He pulled a sharp left and overshot the turning, almost smacking into a Toyota SUV. He climbed up towards some orange flats overlooking the river valley. ‘Maybe you should’ve driven.’
‘You can’t navigate for shite. Left, then left again.’
Hunter followed the road around. Victorian houses on both sides, all with dormer roofs, the left-hand side dotted with satellite dishes. He took another left onto a row of modern houses dripping in the rain. Brick ground floors, covered in harling upstairs. He pulled in opposite and killed the engine. ‘He’s put four women in hospital and kept their mouths shut. We’ll put him away and get justice for his victims.’
Chantal got out and jogged across the road. Rain teemed down, soaking her black hair. She knocked on the first door and turned around, holding her jacket above her head.
Hunter joined her in the downpour, the lights flashing as he plipped the pool car. Already felt like his suit had just come out of the washing machine.
Chantal thumped on the door. Nothing.
Hunter took a step back, rain sliding down his shirt collar. A tiny little house, only one window on both floors. Most of the interior would be stairs. Next door was a mirror, followed by another three pairs.
No sound from inside.
A lane ran down the back. Steps led up to a flat at the rear of a main-road house, backing on to this side street.
Chantal knocked again. ‘Ms Sanderson, it’s DS Jain.’ She waited for a few seconds, tapping her foot, then another knock. Nothing again.
Hunter checked his baton was in his belt, his teeth grinding into each other. ‘Stay here, I’ll check the back. Keep trying her phone.’ He marched over to the thin path at the side of the house.
Second-hand curry fumes hung on the air. A small yard lay at the back, a four-square patio that would never get any direct sun. Not that it was a problem today. Two green plastic chairs sat either side of a pile of bricks. Raindrops dotted the water filling an ashtray, submerged cigarette butts up to halfway. No chance of telling if they’d been smoked ten minutes or ten years ago.
Hunter peered in the kitchen window. No immediate signs of life. Lights off, gloomier than a funeral home. The room was like an IKEA catalogue. The kettle had misted the window glass.
Bingo. Someone is in.
Hunter stepped over and tried the back door.
The handle jolted down and the door flew back into the house. A boot lashed out, cracking into Hunter’s knee. Something thumped his chest and he tumbled backwards. He reached out, grabbing hold of one of the bricks as he fell.
His hip cracked off the concrete. Crunch.
The ashtray toppled onto his face, covering his suit and trousers in grey water. Burnt ash powdered his face, covered his tongue. He swallowed dirty rainwater, thick lumps getting caught in his throat. He tried to cough it up.
A boot hit him in the side.
Hunter rolled away and swiped out with his leg, trying to sweep.
He missed.
Another boot sparked off his thigh. A hand gripped his wrist and twisted his arm back. His lips kissed the slabs. Hunter wriggled round. ‘Stop!’
A hand pressed Hunter’s face against the slabs, grit digging into his chin. ‘Sean Tulloch, you’re under arrest!’ Irish accent.
‘I’m not Tulloch!’ Hunter jerked his head round, getting a nice scratch on his cheek. ‘I’m a cop!’
The grip slackened off. ‘What?’
A lanky cop stood over him, confusion pulsing his bushy eyebrows. He took off his cap, coiled-up curls springing free, the sides shaved to a step. Glamour biceps stretched his standard-issue T-shirt. ‘Shite.’
Hunter pushed himself to standing. His kneecap felt like it had swivelled round to the inside. ‘Who are you?’
‘PC Lenny Warner. How’re ye?’ Dirty Dubliner accent, hiding out in the Scottish Borders for no obvious reason.
Hunter spat out a cigarette butt. He almost vomited. ‘Jesus.’
‘You okay?’
‘Not really.’ Another butt came out. Still tasted like… like a bloody ashtray. ‘This is horrible.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you were Tulloch.’ Warner was a good few inches taller than Hunter. He looked young, his designer stubble a desperate attempt to add maturity. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’re supposed to be interviewing Paisley Sanderson.’ Hunter tried to dust off his crotch. Looked like he’d had an accident in a baker’s. ‘She’s one of many long-term domestic abuse cases relating to a Sean William—’
‘—Tulloch.’ Warner groaned as he put his cap back on. He thumbed inside the house. ‘Yer woman there called us. Said she’s got a nasty text from her boyfriend, one Sean Tulloch. Tried calling some cops, but they didn’t answer.’
‘That’s us.’ Hunter hadn’t seen a squad car. ‘You here alone?’
‘For now.’ Warner pulled the back door open. ‘So, can I get you a cup of tea?’
2
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal tipped the boiling water into the pastel-coloured teacups, her phone clamped between her ear and her shoulder. She mashed Hunter’s teabag. How the picky bastard liked it. ‘Aye, we’ve got hold of her now.’
